


In The Way He Should Go

by Edge_of_Clairvoyance



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alive Mary Winchester, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort, Corporal Punishment, Discipline, Domestic Discipline, Family, Family Fluff, Family Issues, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Consensual Spanking, POV John Winchester, Parent-Child Relationship, Punishment, Spanking, Teen Dean Winchester, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 15:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14060154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edge_of_Clairvoyance/pseuds/Edge_of_Clairvoyance
Summary: "Dean, when you are given a curfew, you are expected to keep it. I will not have you disobeying your mother and me, and I will certainly not have you arguing about it. And since you seemed to forget that, I'm going to make sure you remember."





	In The Way He Should Go

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Home Late](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11045142) by [babybrotherdean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybrotherdean/pseuds/babybrotherdean). 



> Parental spanking of a minor - if it offends, please don't read
> 
> As soon as I read ["Home Late"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11045142), I knew I had to write the spanking version of it, and the author babybrotherdean didn't mind :)
> 
> I was very lucky to have not one, but two beta readers: [CrazedPanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazedPanda) and [ToscaRossetti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToscaRossetti/pseuds/ToscaRossetti) \- thank you so much, dears!
> 
> The title comes from Proverbs 22:6

It was almost half past one a.m. when Mary said, "I'm calling the police."

"Give it just a little more time."

"What for, John? It's been long enough. Something must have happened to him."

"I'll go for another drive."

"You drove around for more than an hour. He couldn't have covered more distance than you without a car. We've called everyone, checked everywhere. We can't do this on our own. I'm calling the police right now."

John rubbed a hand down his face. As much as he hated the idea of having the cops involved, Mary was right. Dean was late, too late, and they had no damned clue where he was. Yeah, their eldest was quick-witted and physically fit and resourceful, and yeah, it was the nice, quiet, upstanding community of Lawrence, Kansas. But, Jesus Christ, the kid was only sixteen years old, and it was one thirty in the freaking morning, and John was just about ready to go insane with worry.

The lock on the back door clicked. Both John and Mary held their breath as the door swished over the linoleum, and then closed softly with the lock clicking shut. John listened for footfalls but heard none. The reason became obvious when Dean came from the kitchen with his shoes held in one hand. He froze in the arched doorway, fixed in place by the gazes of both his parents.

John heard Mary release her breath as she saw Dean, and did a quick scan of the boy from head to toe; he seemed to be perfectly fine. Satisfied that his son was well, John's worry deepened into rage. He inhaled in order to calm his voice down before he spoke.

"When's your curfew on Friday nights, Dean?"

"Uh… it's eleven," Dean eyed them carefully, took in the mood, and added, "sir."

"And what time is it now?"

"One a.m.," the grandfather clock in the foyer gave a deep chime, signaling the half hour. Dean looked as if he heard a death knell. "And a half. Sir."

"Where the hell have you been?" Mary said. John didn't have to look at her to know that, same as him, her concern had boiled into anger.

"Just the park," Dean was fidgeting a bit, his sock-clad feet shuffling on the floor. "I didn't get into any trouble. I was just at the park."

"Don't bullshit me," John said. "I looked for you there."

"I was at the west side, you know, where they didn't put up the lights yet? I'm not lying, Dad, honest," Dean's eyes were shifting from Mary to John, probably trying to assess which one of them was more pissed off. "I'm really sorry, I lost track of time, I was gonna be there for just a little while."

"Same as you lost track of time two weeks ago?" Mary's voice was sharpening. "And the month before?"

"I wasn't really breaking curfew, it was just-"

"You were half an hour late last month, on a _school night_ , and almost forty-five minutes late two weeks ago. And now it's two and a half hours. Are you going to tell me that it's not breaking curfew when you get back at dawn the next time?"

"There won't be a next time, Mom, I'm sorry, I promise."

Mary folded her arms over her chest. "You were sorry the last time, and the time before that. And you _promised_ , the last time and the time before that."

Dean just blinked at her, probably not able to come up with a good enough answer.

"Did you even think that we might be worried about you? Do you even care?"

"Of course I care, but, Mom, you know I can handle myself. And besides, it's not like it's Chicago or Harlem or whatever. It's Lawrence, there's nothing-"

"That's not the goddamned _point_ ," John was actually _growling_ , because for such a smart kid, Dean was not getting it, not by a long shot.

He looked at Mary, and she looked up at him. Over the course of their marriage they had developed their own personal system of silent communication; and right now, when his wife glanced from Dean back at him, all John had to do was nod slightly to let her know he'd have this taken care of.

"I'll be upstairs," was all Mary said before she turned to exit the living room.

Dean's eyes followed her, and even after the soft sound of the master bedroom's door closing drifted down to them, he didn't look back at his father. John could see the boy's breath quickening. Dean didn't know what was going on, but he was starting to get scared.

Corporal punishment wasn't a taboo in Mary and John's personal philosophy; it just wasn't necessary. Both Dean and Sam were good boys, and any misbehavior was easily corrected with a stern reprimand or a grounding or revoking of benefits such as their weekly allowance. On the rare occasions when they were spanked, it was no more than a few solid swats to the seat of their pants. Even that much hadn't been dished out since the boys' ages had been single-digit.

It was usually Mary who did that, with her being the main carer of their sons. But there was this one time, a couple of years ago, when in the heat of an argument Dean had blurted at his mother to "stop being such a _bitch_ ", and before John even knew it, his hand went flying and the sound of the slap echoed like a gunshot between the kitchen walls.

He still remembered how wide with shock Dean's eyes were when he slowly turned his head back, and images of himself in handcuffs and his sons in some CPS boys' home flashed before John's eyes. But when Dean opened his mouth, it wasn't to call for help, but to apologize. John hadn't raised a hand to him since.

"Dean," his son's gaze turned to him, almost reluctantly. "When you are given a curfew, you are expected to keep it. I will not have you disobeying your mother and me, and I will certainly not have you arguing about it. And since you seemed to forget that, I'm going to make sure you remember. Come here."

Even more reluctantly, Dean shuffled over to stand in front of his dad. John reached down and unbuckled his belt, watching as Dean's green eyes grew large in his paling face.

"What… what are you doing?" Dean was trying – and failing – to keep his voice steady.

"I'm going to give you a whipping."

Dean's mouth opened, closed, opened again. "You can't do that," he managed at last.

"Says who?"

"It's illegal."

"Is that so?" John had the belt out of its loops and stared at his son with his eyebrows drawn. "You wanna call the cops on me? Be my guest. But let me tell you, Dean, I'd rather have your mother and Sammy crying over me going to jail for spanking you, than over finding you bleeding to death in some back alley or lying in a ditch."

Looking at Dean, John could see the mental image had struck home; not so much the image of his own mangled body in a ditch, but rather that of his mother and baby brother grieving. But it was apparent his disbelief had not fully disappeared when he said, "But… but I'm sixteen."

"Yeah, you are. A kid. A _minor_. Living under _our_ roof. We have rules for you and Sam, not because we're some kind of tyrants, but because we want you to be _safe_ , so you can grow up to be good men. Those rules are for your own good, and even if you can't see that at the moment, you'll obey them because your mother and I tell you to. You break the rules, you face the consequences. You break them again, the consequences worsen."

Dean's voice was even less steady now, the disbelief gone. "Can't you ground me? I'll never do it again. Please, Dad, I promise, just ground me."

"You were grounded the other times, and yet here we are. It was obviously not working for you."

"I know, and I'm sorry, but I get it. I get it. You don't have to whip me, I'll follow the rules, please, I'll do whatever you and Mom say-"

"That's enough, Dean."

"I was just at the park," there weren't tears in Dean's eyes, not yet, but there were in his voice. "I wasn't doing anything. I wasn't drinking, I wasn't using drugs, I'm not… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you, I just… you can't… Dad, I'm sorry, please. Please."

John moved a step forward and Dean flinched back instinctively. John didn't raise his voice as he kept his gaze on his son. "Here's what's going to happen. You are going to shut your mouth, right now. Then you're going to drop your pants, and you're going to bend over the back of the couch, and you're gonna take the whipping you have coming. And then you are grounded for the next two weeks, no exceptions. For two weeks after that, your curfew will be nine o'clock. If you break curfew again, you are going to get another whipping, and a month of grounding, and nine o'clock isn't going to be your curfew, but your bedtime. Is everything I just said clear to you, Dean?"

Dean stared at him for a moment, then dropped his eyes, drew a breath and raised them again. "Yes, sir." His voice was so subdued, he didn't even sound like himself.

"Good," John stepped closer to the living room couch and motioned Dean to him. The boy moved as if he had to force every single muscle in his legs to obey him, and John waited patiently for him to reach his side and face the couch. "Get your pants down and bend over."

Dean started fumbling with the buttons of his jeans; he might have seemed to be stalling, but John could see his fingers were trembling, and didn't rush him. The jeans were undone at last, and Dean pushed them down to his knees.

"Boxers, too," Dean looked up at John, his eyes pleading, but John didn't even give him a chance to open his mouth. "Now, Dean."

Dean wiped the heel of his hand over his cheek, snuffled and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. He slid them down to join his jeans, then leaned forward and awkwardly started positioning himself over the back of the well-padded couch.

Again, John didn't rush him. It was all unfamiliar to Dean, and he was practically freaking out. It wasn't exactly a bad thing; giving him a good healthy scare now would save John and Mary plenty of trouble later on. But there was no need to push him.

So John waited until Dean had settled with his forearms resting on the couch cushions and his naked rump up in the air, and then moved to stand behind him and a little to his left, doubled the belt over and grabbed both ends in his palm.

It was all unfamiliar to John as well. He had contemplated spanking the boy over his knee, sixteen or not, but Dean had a ridiculously high tolerance for pain, and John didn't care for wearing out his own hand on his son's stubborn ass; after all, he wasn't the one being punished here. He had never whipped either of his boys like he was about to do now, but it wasn't like it was rocket science. All you had to do was swing the belt, and land it.

He did just that. Dean jolted, uttering a yelp. John suspected it was more the surprise of it than the pain, even though the mark on Dean's ass was burning red against his pale skin. John reared his arm back and brought the belt down again. This time Dean's cry was muffled; he was probably stuffing his face into the couch. But he stayed in position and didn't try to throw a hand back to protect himself, and John kept going.

No, it was no rocket science, but it still was the hardest thing John had ever done. Not because the technique was complicated – he all but mastered it from the fifth lash on – but because Dean was _crying_. John didn't even recognize the sound at first because he couldn't remember when was the last time he heard his eldest weep; but he did now, low, miserable sobs, which Dean tried to stifle but John heard all the same. And it took incredible willpower to land the belt again, and then again and hear those smothered cries. It was only the image, the one of his son's bloody corpse he had supplied Dean with, that kept him focused. Because his boy was home, he was safe, he was _alive_ , and John would make sure he stayed that way for as long as he could.

And then it was enough. John carefully figured the spot on which Dean's weight would rest as he sat down, and applied the last three swats there, hard, nearly cringing at Dean's desperate wails of pain. Dean would have the message reminded to him loud and clear whenever his ass met a chair over the next few days.

John stepped back and threaded the belt back into its loops. He was breathing hard, almost panting, which was a bit odd, since it wasn't any sort of intense physical effort, and glancing at his watch he realized it had been less than twenty minutes since Mary went upstairs. But John felt like he had just finished a ten-mile run. He took a few slow, deliberate breaths, then looked at Dean.

His son was still draped over the back of the couch, shaking, his muffled sobs very much audible in the silent house. His ass was a splotch of glowing red skin, but even with that sight taken into consideration, John didn't believe Dean was crying like he was because of mere pain, not remotely.

He laid a hand on Dean's back, and the boy winced sharply, his breath hitching. "Shhh, it's okay," John started to rub his hand over Dean's tensed muscles. "It's okay, it's over." He kept at it for a while, but Dean was still sobbing, and John slid his hands carefully under him to help him stand up.

He wanted to take Dean into his arms, but it felt somewhat off doing it with his son half-naked like that, so as soon as Dean straightened up a little, John hoisted his boxers up. Dean groaned when they were pulled into place, even though John tried to do so carefully. John maneuvered him to rest against his chest, not sure if Dean wanted him to even touch him right now, let along hug him.

But not only did Dean want to be held, he all but burrowed into John, his face pressing into his chest and his hands clutching his shirt and his weight shifting onto his father, as if he couldn't even stand up on his own. It was just fine with John. he tightened his arms around his son and tilted his head a bit, resting his cheek on the top of Dean's blond head.

"It's okay, it's okay, son. You're okay. It's over, it's okay," he didn't know if Dean was hearing those murmured words or just reacting to the soothing tone and to John's hand rubbing at his back, but he could feel the boy's body relaxing gradually, his weeping subsiding, his trembling lessening. But even after he stopped crying, Dean stayed as he was, and John held him, listening to his sniffling breaths, and blinking against the tears that stung his eyes without warning. Because he was suddenly overwhelmed with how much he loved this kid, his sweet little boy; and he would always be John's sweet little boy, even if he was already taller than his mother and starting to pack on lean muscles and as smart-mouthed as they came.

Dean wasn't smart-mouthing now, though. He turned his head so his cheek was resting against John's chest. "Dad, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry. Are you still mad at me?"

John moved one hand up and kneaded the back of his neck. "No, I'm not mad at you. But you mind what I said, Dean. I don't want to have to do this again." Because it-hurt-me-more-than-it-hurt-you might have been a cliché, but it was far too accurate for comfort.

"Yes, sir," there was a slight but a definite shudder in Dean's voice.

A moment later, Dean pulled away from his dad's arms. He wiped his sleeve across his face and looked up at John. His eyes were red and puffy, his cheeks flushed, his eyelashes wet, but he seemed to have calmed down, and tension John didn't even know he felt dissolved from his body. He reached to gently stroke Dean's cheek and smiled.

"So, what's her name?"

"What?"

"Her name. The girl you broke curfew for."

Dean stared at him, the flush in his cheeks deepening. "How…?"

John's smile broadened. "We called all your friends, you weren't with any of them. And you're not the type to go stargazing on his own at the park."

John would have lied if he said watching Dean's embarrassment wasn't amusing. Dean was never shy about girls; he was good-looking and confident and devilishly charming and he knew damned well how to work it. But this was different.

"Haley," Dean said at last, and yeah, there was a quality to his voice when he said her name that told John all he needed to know.

"Why don't you invite Haley over for dinner?"

Dean's mouth was gaping as wide as his eyes. "Dinner?"

"Yeah. You can't go out anyway, being grounded and all. Besides, a girl worth getting your ass roasted over is someone I'd like to meet."

Dean looked at him carefully for a minute longer, and then a smile curled the corners of his lips. "I'll invite her. Maybe in a year or so, when I'm actually able to sit down for dinner."

John chuckled. "Right. Go to bed, Dean."

"Yes, sir. Goodnight, Dad."

"Goodnight, son."

Dean looked down at the jeans that were still pooled around his calves, shrugged and stepped out of them.  He moaned shortly when he bent to pick them up, collected his shoes while he was at it, and flashed a little smile at his dad before turning to go up the stairs.

John trailed behind him but halted halfway up the stairs when he heard a door open. From where he stood at the curve of the staircase he could see the bottom half of Mary's white nightgown as she stepped out of their bedroom and into the hallway. Dean walked right into her arms, and John climbed two more steps in silence to take in the sight of Mary hugging their eldest, the fingers of one hand sinking into his hair.

"I'm so sorry, Mom," John could hear him whisper.

"It's okay, baby, it's okay," she sighed heavily as she held him for a few minutes more, and then pulled back and put her hands on both sides of his face. "You're alright?"

"I'm fine," Mary was looking intently at Dean, as if trying to confirm or to refute this statement, and at last pulled him in for a kiss.

"Goodnight, sweetheart."

"Goodnight, Mom."

She smiled up at him, patted his cheek and watched him until he went into his bedroom further down the hall. Then she returned to the master bedroom, leaving the door ajar, undoubtedly expecting John in any minute.

And John would have been in, but another door creaked open and he froze on the steps. Sam emerged from his room and padded down the hall to Dean's. There he hasitated for a minute before knocking lightly. "Dean?"

"Sammy?" The door swung open so fast it startled Sam for a second. "What are you doing up?"

"I woke up to go to the bathroom, and I heard Mom and Dad talking and saying you didn't come home yet, and they were worried, and I couldn't go back to sleep, and then you came back." Dean had wandered out of his room into the hall, and Sam looked up at him, face crunched up with concern. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, 'course I am," Dean reached out a hand to brush Sam's bangs. But the concern in Sam's face remained.

"I… I heard it," he whispered, glancing a bit sideways at Dean as if he couldn't look at him directly. "It sounded so _loud_. And you were _crying_."

John couldn't tell exactly if Dean was blushing, and he wouldn't blame the kid if he was. To be spanked at sixteen was embarrassing enough, to have your baby brother hear the entire thing could have been devastating to that fragile teenage ego. But Sam wasn't one to rub it in his big brother's face, not with how he practically worshipped the ground Dean walked on. And John could see Dean's expression softening, the way it did for his little brother and no one else.

"Yeah, I was crying," he said at last. "But it's alright, Sammy, it's over. I'm fine. Don't worry about it, okay?"

Sam searched his brother's face, as if, the same as Mary, he was trying to figure out if Dean was lying. And then he moved forward and wrapped his arms around Dean. Dean winced when Sam's hand brushed over his backside, but stayed put and hugged Sam back, one hand brushing through the kid's shaggy hair, that tender expression still on his face.

At last Sam pulled back and looked up at Dean. Dean smiled, and stroked his head one last time. "Want me to tuck you in?"

Sam nodded and turned, and John moved silently back into the shadows of the stairwell so he wouldn't be seen when the boys headed for Sam's bedroom. They disappeared into it, and John resumed climbing the stairs, slowly and quietly. But he didn't go into his room, not yet. Instead, he lingered on the edge of the hallway, eyes shifting from the door of Mary's and his room, to that of Sam's, and thought about what a lucky man he was. A very lucky man.

He went into the master bedroom and closed the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Like my works? Want to subscribe and get updates on new stories? Make sure you subscribe to the **user** and not the specific work!


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